Balance
by Anysia
Summary: She never wanted this, wanted this decision. Everything could be destroyed so easily now, she thinks, as she waits in fear and uncertainty. Raph/Cass.


_A/N: Hey, Anysia's back…with a full-length one-shot! This one was written in stages over a period of about…oh, four months. Despite the patchwork writing process, I'm fairly pleased with the result. Hopefully you'll find this piece as emotional to read as it was to write. _

_[This one's for Razer Athane, whose deftly-written character pieces are always such a joy to read and provide infinite comfort and respite to me when quality in the SC fandom appears to be on something of a downward slide. Her fame is entirely well-deserved.]_

_-------_

Raphael comes just past nightfall to ask Cassandra down to dinner (_asks_ being far too generous a word, of course—he demands, orders, all haughty, immovable arrogance, but he's somehow charming through it all, and even though she'll never admit that she longs for his nearness, she often obeys, but with just enough pause, just enough seemingly thoughtful hesitation to remind him—and, in some ways, herself—that she doesn't want him nearly as much as she knows she does).

Tonight she stands firm. "I'm not hungry," she says, voice muffled as she lies concealed in bed beneath endless layers of fleece and eiderdown.

"And had I phrased my previous statement as a question, we might be at something of an impasse." He pulls, a swift, harsh, movement, and the covers settle at the end of the bed, leaving her exposed to the cool night air.

"I'm not hungry," Cassandra repeats, curling in on herself in an attempt to retain the warmth he's stolen from her. "It's not exactly a crime, you know. I just don't have much of an appetite tonight."

"Nor did you the night before, or the night before that," Raphael says flatly, and she's silent but amazed that he noticed. "Shall I send for a physician?"

"I'm fine," she responds, voice firm, gaze pointed as she sits up and leans back against the thick pillows. "I'll ask one of the maids to bring me some soup later if I'm still feeling a little under the weather."

"You're certain?"

"_Yes_," she intones, voice threaded with irritation at the faint note of worry and what she nearly feels is _kindness_ in his tone, kindness he never feels, never _should_ feel with her, ever, for fear of upsetting this delicate and carefully constructed balance of hatred and scarcely-concealed admiration they've developed, where they fight, talk, trade sharp-tongued insults, and sometimes he kisses her and sometimes does more, but they never care for one another, not at all, even on the colder nights where she sleeps fitfully beside him, curls against him, and still tells herself it'd be so easy to walk away.

Such a delicate balance, so easily upset...

An increasingly familiar wave of nausea rises to the back of her throat, and she bites back foul acid and closes her eyes. "Don't worry about me," she says finally, digging her fingertips into smooth linen sheets.

A long pause from the foot of the bed, and his eyes are narrowed, accusatory, and he uncrosses his arms, settles tight fists at his sides. "I wasn't," he says, words falling like stones from his lips, and he turns, exits without another word, and it's so sudden, so angry and terse, that she wonders, idly, if he hates her as much as she does him—desperate, fierce. Denying.

Almost comforting to think on, comfortably familiar, and she needs that familiarity when her stomach once more twists and turns, and even though she closes her eyes tightly, newly-formed tears stinging at the corners, trying to cling to everything familiar and safe, her mind continues its foreboding count of days, as it has so relentlessly over the past few weeks, waiting, _waiting_, praying to be as wrong in this as she is in everything else…

Silence, cold, heavy, and she gingerly presses one hand to her abdomen and wonders.

_-------_

Cassandra hasn't prayed in years—finds it pointless after so many fruitless hours of entreating, begging, pleading for the gods' pity, to have them spare her sister, cease their callous destruction of her family.

Never wanted to pray again, never wanted to waste precious time and energy crying in vain for some semblance of mercy.

She prays now, each morning, when she tightens her thick, woolen robe about her thin, shaking frame and visits the privy, prays to be as wrong in this as she is in everything else. Prays for blood sacrifice.

They mock her in this as in everything else.

_-------_

Three months to the day. For the past week she's eaten alone, slept alone—his punishment for her rebuff, his proof that he needs her so little, the destruction of her own former beliefs of the same. When she wakes from another night's unfitful sleep, cold, lonely, wishing for the solidness of his form beside her, even as she anticipates his anger, his rejection when he discovers what she has become steadily more certain she conceals, she curls in on herself, hidden beneath the covers, and she wonders…

_-------_

Cassandra finally comes to dinner, and Raphael allows her a ghost of a smile until she tells him.

She'd expected anger. Expected him to shout, curse, level a ceaseless torrent of multilingual epithets at her until he was too exhausted to speak further. Had prepared for it, in fact, and so she squares her shaking shoulders with every last waning ounce of strength and courage she possesses, digs in softly-slippered heels, narrows her eyes in a show of determination and confidence she doesn't really feel and readies herself for the fight.

He's silent. Profoundly, worryingly silent, hands stilled upon the table, eyes dark and inscrutable as he slowly drags his gaze over her thin form, critical, appraising, eyes lingering just a moment, fleeting, quick, at her still-flat stomach, and she trembles at his silent inspection.

No words between them for long, agonizing moments, silence overpowering in the dimly-lit hall until she can't take it anymore, bows her head and turns to run, but he's always been quicker, cleverer, and he's before her before she can draw a startled breath, familiarly dark and imposing, reddened eyes boring into hers.

"I'm so sorry," she begins, biting her lip against a rising sob, so very loath to cry because he hates it, thinks it manipulative and weak, but the tears fall just the same, flowing quick and hot over cool flesh, and she starts to sink to her knees, helpless, weakened, until he grasps her by the shoulders and pulls her tight against him, arms winding round her, lips against her hair, and his hushed words cut through her sorrow, her despair.

"Don't be."

She starts from his embrace, stares up at him, wide-eyed, broken heart healing just a little at the faint wonder upon his features, a glint of hope and promise shining beneath cold cruelty and noble disdain.

"You—" she starts, quiet, disbelieving, voice a faint whisper through the darkness and shadows, as if to speak in full voice might shatter that which she has just begun to grasp.

"Preparations will have to be made, of course," Raphael continues, oblivious, voice steady and clipped, his familiar businesslike tone, but there's a slight tremor in the hand at her shoulder. "Minimal, in terms of security; the fortress is well-guarded against intruders and entirely safe for children—I saw to that immediately once Amy and I settled here. Several of the elder maids have some midwifery experience, or so I've heard; in time, I'm certain a suitable wet-nurse might be found in the village, should you see fit to employ one. Until then, you're to be placed on strict bed rest for the foreseeable future. I'll send for a physician at once."

Tears stinging her eyes still, but now she's on the verge of laughter—hysterical, joyful, utterly disbelieving. "What…" she begins, still trembling even as she settles back against his broad chest, the slow, steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm even as her own beats wildly, "what will you tell Amy?"

"The truth, in time," he says easily enough, even though he's still not rock-steady and his arms are too-tight around her. "Although this development is certainly an…unexpected one, I suspect my little one would welcome a small playmate to accompany her on the long days when I am forced to journey away from the castle."

Tears now bearing a hint of shame, as she remembers anticipating anger, rage, condemnation—an unfounded expectation, she understands now. He is what he is—anger, madness, cruelty and hate bound beneath noble features. He tortures. He destroys. He possesses, dominates, breaks and twists apart. And yet a spark shines within curse-reddened eyes, distant and dim but _there_, almost loving, almost kind. The potential for goodness buried within, brightness and hope hovering just below the surface. It was what had first drawn her to him, months ago. She sees it now as the driving force, the truest facet. Fleeting concern, affection. The bright counterpoint to the darkness and hatred that irrevocably binds them, a twisting grafted tree blooming in dim moonlight.

She draws a shaky breath, manages a faint smile as she rests in his embrace. "I'll have to explain this to my family," she says quietly.

"When the child has grown, I might permit you to journey to Athens and explain the situation to them. Perhaps once he's reached his fifteenth year or so."

"Raphael—"

"Cassandra. I will not have my son subjected to the plebian and narrow-minded views of those peasants with whom you have in the past freely associated."

"Need I remind you that those 'peasants' are my family, you arrogant sod? And how do you know it'll be a boy?"

He affords her a lightly crooked grin, tugging absently at a few strands of her golden-blond hair. "My dear," he says simply, "one with my unsurpassed…virility could not help but produce sons of unquestioned strength and valor."

Her smile begets a peal of rich laughter, and even though he frowns at her in annoyance, he doesn't scold her, doesn't turn from her embrace, and she knows he's happy.

She sleeps in his arms that night.

_-------_

Scarce a week later, and nothing is as it was. As she had dared to hope.

Cassandra is silent, ashen-faced, as she sits upright beside the expansive bay window of his private quarters, staring into the distance as the moon begins to rise, pale and full over shadowed lines of pine and birch.

"Likely for the best," he informs her, all traces of wonder, of fragile happiness and warmth fled from his tone, replaced with an all too familiar coolness and distance following the physician's departure, mouth set in a grim line, eyes cold as the robed man had patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. _A cruel fate, my lord. Best tend to your woman for a bit now; she'll be needing you_.

"Cassandra," he begins after a moment, "to have brought a child into this world of shadows and uncertainty…"

"I know," she says quietly.

"I've instructed the maids to tend carefully to you for the next few days—herbal teas, a warm bath when you see fit. The physician did state that you'll likely feel a bit faint and need something of an enriched diet after...after your loss. As such I've sent word to the kitchens to provide well for you."

"Thank you."

Raphael frowns, a hint of worry etched into his features, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, hastily concealed as with any fleeting sign of weakness. "Call upon me if you have need of anything," he says after a moment, leaning down to press a faint kiss to her brow.

"Don't worry about me," she responds, voice distant.

He's silent, staring at her, eyes inscrutable. "I would love nothing more than to be able to do so," he finally says. He reaches out one hand to tentatively stroke her hair, faintly comforting as best he knows how. She fails to respond.

It's not until he takes his leave that she lets the tears fall, hot, painful, even though she knows it's better this way, better for him, better for her, better for everyone, really. He can't be bound to her like this, can't be weakened by a child as he fights to dominate, possess, destroy; she'd be a fool to welcome the stinging dishonor and shame of bearing a son unmarried as she is, even if he would dote upon her and her child, _their_ child, give her any and everything, give his life to protect his growing family. Better not to destroy the careful balance between them. Better not to bring another innocent soul into their twisted dance of affection and hatred, condemned to a life on the margins, draped in shadows and shunned by the light. Knows this, logically. Knows it, understands it, accepts it. As does he.

And so she weeps silently, alone, curled in on herself, staring distantly at the darkening night, and wills away the dreams of what will not be, cannot be.

Wills away tempting images of a son—just like he said, and he'd smirk, pride and arrogant satisfaction because he's never wrong—held warmly in her arms, blond and blue-eyed and shining with innocence even in this dark fortress. He'd be sharp and stubborn, clever, a strange mixture of equally-obstinate parents, of positive and negative traits all rolled together, of his father's disdain, his courage, of his mother's willfulness, her strength and love.

He'd be a brilliant light shining deep within this encompassing darkness, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, everywhere and underfoot, troublesome, but he'd make his father laugh and his adopted sister smile after so many troubled years, and even as a war raged on outside, never would a child be so loved, so cared for and protected. Learn to heft a sword before he could scarcely walk, that one, speak French, Greek, Romanian, anything and everything, learn to read and debate, reason and care, fight and protect, and even in this uncertainty, in a world of evil swords, of cruelty and black hatred, he'd emerge strong and kind—his father's son. His mother's.

Better not to hope, she understands. Better not to want.

Better to mourn, she thinks, one hand pressed to her abdomen. Better to mourn for the child who would never be, the child she had so feared, so hated… the child, _his_ child, that she had only now come to realize was that which she desired above all else.


End file.
